


Problem Solving

by gutrots



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Gangbang, Gore, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Not Beta Read, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Stun Batons, Torture, Violence, botched attempts at resuscitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 17:39:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14899031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutrots/pseuds/gutrots
Summary: Rumlow's team breaks the asset.





	Problem Solving

There are many words that describe Brock Rumlow.

Professional. Reliable. Efficient.

Real fucking efficient, actually.

Committed. Persistent.

Charming, if he does say so himself.

Unfortunately, creative is not one of these words.

Okay, so maybe he did embellish his CV to fit the job requirements. Slightly. Just a tiny bit, really. Doesn't everyone do that at least once in their life? Big deal. It just really showed how bad he wanted this job. Risked being caught red handed. Now that’s fucking noble, if you ask him.

And really, not like a below average result in the ‘Strategy and tactics’ part of his military education was going to put him off smacking a big fat “advanced problem solving” bullet point in the 'Transferable skills' portion of his job application. In the end, it really did help in securing that cosy position in the counter-terrorist unit and steadily climbing his way up the ladder all the way to leadership in STRIKE.

What it does not help with at all is figuring out what the fuck he should do about the situation he is finding himself in right now.

 

* * *

 

The asset is lying face down on the floor, legs spread and ass up in the air. It's not moving, and it doesn't seem to be breathing either.

McKenna, the most recent addition to the team, is standing over it, trousers down to his knees and dick still at half-mast.

'Is it supposed to do that?' McKenna asks.

How the fuck should Rumlow know? He isn't the one responsible for asset maintenance. He takes it out for missions, makes sure it doesn't get shot at too much. Brings it back to base. Fucks it sometimes. That's really it.

He goes over to where the asset is sprawled like a used up blow up doll and pokes it in the ribs with the steel cap of his boot.

Nothing happens.

He gives the asset a solid kick. And then another. And another. Three times the charm.

Nothing.

'Did we break it?' McKenna inquires timidly from the background. For someone well above six feet tall and a good two hundred pounds of solid muscle, he sounds incredibly small.

 

* * *

 

The mission was a good one. Target eliminated, asset extracted, no agents compromised. No use of non-essential resources, too. Quite an accomplishment in the era of extremely limited funding. Picture-fucking-perfect. And very efficient. All in record speed, too.

Which is why Rumlow finds himself and his team in one of the entirely too fucking many locker rooms in the basement of the headquarters. He doesn't even know how many there are. All that matters is that following the recent staff redundancies following budget cuts they stand empty and disused, providing him with ample space for team building activities like this one.

It's no secret that STRIKE have their merry way with the asset’s _assets_ sometimes. After all, they're working men. Nothing like the suits upstairs. They need to let off steam sometimes, when tensions run high on a stressful day or the barely contained excitement from a task well done has nowhere to go. And why would it go anywhere other than here, where a willing hole is prime and ready for use at their convenience. Well, maybe _willing_ is a bit of an overstatement. Not resisting. For Rumlow (and the team, it seems), that's enough.

He's sitting back in a folding chair, legs propped up on another one, can of beer in one hand and his dick in the other. Watching McKenna ready himself to go to town on the asset's hole.

Rumlow, as always, was the first one to fuck it. Commanding officer privileges. Only the tightest guts for him. Then Rollins, second in command. Then Vierres. By the time Merrick got his turn, the asset's insides had already started poking out of its hole a like a prime cut of meat. Then Reiner, and by the time the new guy got his turn, the asset was as loose as it gets. Whatever. If McKenna wants to make his way to the top, he needs to make good use of whatever sloppy seconds he can get his hands on. Something about gift horses, etcetera, etcetera. Rumlow’s never been too good with proverbs.

So McKenna pulls down his standard issue military grade black cargo pants and there it is. Probably the biggest dick Rumlow has ever seen. Bigger than his own. Oddly enough, that isn't an issue. Really, it’s not. He has always believed that it's not about the tools you've got but rather how you use them. Kind of a funny thing to say, now that he thinks about it, considering how well it applies to both of his favourite things – interrogation methods and fucking.

McKenna has no underwear on, which, from a tactical point of view, seems stupid as fuck. If Rumlow had a dick like that, he probably wouldn’t want all that meat just dangling around in the loose front of his cargos while he’s forced to jump from a helicopter or do a barrel roll to avoid gunfire. As already established, though, Rumlow is not a tactician, so he doesn't dwell on that for too long.

After a few smug smirks and wolf whistles from his audience, McKenna gets to work on the asset. He picks it up where it's sitting slumped on the floor, breath wheezing and entirely un-asset-like, plants its feet on the floor and his hands on its hips, and plunges right in.

The asset gives a strangled yelp, and honestly, Rumlow is surprised that it can still feel anything after HYDRA's finest made its ass uncannily resemble a pound of ground beef. The new guy's _big_ though, so maybe he reaches something inside the asset that is making it whine like a bitch in heat. Maybe that massive dick of his is big enough to poke the asset in the internal organs and boy, wouldn't that be a story to tell. First week on the job too. Rumlow can already tell that McKenna is going places.

Speaking of which. McKenna is happily pounding away, giving the asset an occasional smack on the ass or a pull on the hair, the sound of skin on skin filling the basement room. The air smells of stale sweat and sex, his beer is cold, his teammates satisfied with work well done, and Rumlow is as _content_ as he gets these days.

Of course it doesn't last.

 

* * *

 

McKenna fucks like a porn star, all grunts and groans and ' _Oh yeah, you like that?_ ’s. Oblivious to the fact that the most he can get out of the asset in ways of a reply is a steady drip of drool out of its half-open mouth and the obscene squelch of multiple loads of cum in its guts.

It is apparent that the new guy is nearing his orgasm. His breathing turns shallow, thrusts harder and pace vicious. He doesn't notice that the asset’s legs start to tremble and buck underneath it. Or maybe he does notice and mentally gives himself a pat on the back, thinking that he bested his boss by accomplishing something not a single one of his team mates has managed during their respective turn - making the asset feel good. He still has a lot to learn.

Including that the asset is not capable of feeling good. No matter how big of a dick goes up its ass.

After a short, but not embarrassingly so, period of time, McKenna is finally coming. He slams his hips into the asset once, twice. And because lady luck is a dirty back alley whore, the universe has it that the third thrust sends the asset reeling off McKenna’s dick and right into the wall straight ahead.

The asset’s forehead meets the concrete with a sick crunch and it falls down instantly.

 

* * *

 

Which is how Brock Rumlow finds himself in one messy bitch of a situation.

The asset is still not responding, and now there's a hint of bruises blossoming on its ribcage and a steady trickle of blood flowing from its right temple and pooling on the floor. A muttered litany of 'Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck' is coming from McKenna in the background and the men have gathered around the asset in a circle, jovial mood vanished into thin air.

Rumlow has to do something. He can't leave the asset here. Can't bring it to maintenance like this either. While Pierce might not care who exactly plays with his favourite toy, he can be a little bitch about _how_ it's played with, and Rumlow imagines he won't be too happy to find it non-operational.

Now comes the time for problem solving.

'Merrick, water. Reiner, stun baton. McKenna, put your fucking dick away, goddammit.'

While the men busy themselves locating supplies, he pulls up the asset by its filthy hair. Upon closer inspection it appears to be breathing. As much as its bleeding, crooked nose allows anyway. There, problem solved. Kind of. Now it just needs to wake the fuck up.

Just for good measure he gives it a solid smack across the face. The action doesn't appear to have done much besides allowing a thick string of drool and cum to escape the asset’s mouth and hang down its chin. Gross. Still worth a try, though.

Merrick and Reiner return with two buckets of water and probably entirely too many batons for what Rumlow is planning. Upon his instruction they empty one of the buckets over the asset's body, washing away any apparent evidence of what went down and rectifying the fact that, in the grand scheme of things, the human body is actually a piss poor conductor for electricity when completely dry. If that isn't some advanced problem solving right fucking there, Rumlow doesn't have a fucking clue what is. Now comes the time for strategy.

This is going to be so fucking efficient.

Step one: restore the asset's breathing to non-suspicious levels so that it does not malfunction further during the second half of the procedure and/or make those pedantic fuckers in maintenance even more of a pain in the ass than they usually are. Also because that occasional sniffle-wheeze combo punctuating near complete silence is the most annoying noise Rumlow's had to endure ever since being forced to fall asleep to the non-stop _schlick schlick schlick_ of Rollins jacking off. every. single. night. in their shared bunk during boot camp. There, _three_ birds with one stone. Turns out he’s a goddamn multitasking savant.

With one swift motion Rumlow sets the asset’s nose back in place. Then, he pulls it up by its cum-slicked ratty hair and dunks its face in the remaining bucket of water, expecting to soon hear a jolly sound of air bubbles and faint gurgling, followed by a sharp intake of breath and a timely return to a normal breathing pattern.

Except that the asset has had its face in the water for quite a while now, and none of that has happened.

Fuck.

He failed step one.

Whatever. There's still step two, and it's not essential that step one is completed before this one. Fuck that chronology nonsense. Maybe he shouldn't even be calling them steps. _Options_ has a much nicer ring to it anyway.

Option two: get stun baton. Turn it up to eleven. Wake up the asset. Profit.

With all the confidence of a man who has very recently learned that he might be a master strategist after all, he grabs the baton from Merrick’s outstretched hand and puts it to the asset's skin. Quick zaps down the spine, over the sides. Turn it over and go over both lungs and the heart.

The action does, unfortunately, absolutely fuckall.

If at first you don't succeed... he zaps the asset again, this time lingering a bit longer. Until something starts to smell like perfectly cooked bacon. As far as he’s considered it’s entirely too late to be having team brunch just about now. Fuck. There's nasty blisters bubbling up around charred patches on the asset's skin and if he's going be honest with himself, that's not very promising. There has to be another way.

Where on the human body can he place electric current so that it has the least possible amount of obstacles in its way when going into the nervous system?

Oh.

Ohhhh.

Now that's an idea.

Crouching down, he slides the baton as far as it goes between the asset's spread cheeks. Its fucked out asshole provides no resistance and the baton goes pretty much all the way in on one smooth stroke. Perfect. He switches on the current.

The asset twitches like a fish out of the water. Once, twice, three times. Then it goes deadly still. One more time. Zap, flop, flop, flop, still. Again. Again. Again. This has to fucking work. Zap follows zap follows zap follows this isn't working. God fucking dammit. And now the asset pissed itself too. Cherry on the very fucking top of this cum filled shit iced goddamn cake.

Rumlow wrenches the baton out of the asset, ignoring the fact that some of its guts seem to have followed along. Enough of this. Maybe he isn't that good at problem solving. Fuck that. He knows what he's good at.

He's professional. Reliable. Efficient.

And so with professionalism, reliability, and efficiency he raises the stun baton over his head and brings it down on the asset’s lifeless body.

 

* * *

 

A firm hand on his shoulder pulls him out of the cloud of rage which seems to have come down over his brain like the stink of garbage over a back alley dumpster on a hot summer day.

'Boss?' McKenna inquires 'Maybe we should get it to medical?'

Rumlow takes a good look at the asset. It's beaten to a pulp, more gore and blood and bruises than actual skin. Despite the ad-hoc first aid its nose still sits crooked between two swollen eyes, drool spilling in a steady stream from its mouth where its head has lolled to the side. Blood is crusting in its long hair, and glimpses of scalp peek out where some of it has been yanked out. Charred patches and purple welts cover the expanse of its chest which, thank fuck, is somehow still barely rising and falling, albeit at a sluggish pace. Its bottom half doesn't look much better, the red of its prolapsed asshole stained with cum and blood peeking out between the legs. It’s laying in a puddle of piss and the smell is almost suffocating in the overheated room.

It looks bad.

It looks _really_ bad.

All of this, just because McKenna couldn't control that goddamn big dick of his.

Rumlow erupts in a burst of hysterical laughter.

Pierce is gonna fucking kill him.


End file.
